My mom still lives in the house I grew up in. She’s 84. My dad died in 1993. When I was a baby, they built the house themselves with help from my grandpa’s, uncles, and friends. It was built on a plot of land that my dad’s parents gave them for their wedding gift. We moved in in 1962. So throughout my childhood, my house was new and in good condition. Most of my friends lived in much older homes. I was always proud of our house. My parents did some updates, paint, new carpet, windows, and an attached screen house around 1989. Nothing has been done since. And so much has to be done. My mom keeps the house clean, but has no desire to put any money into it. She has the same gas stove/range from 1962. She also has the same gas furnace!! It must be a good one, because she’s never had one bit of trouble with it.
I get stressed out when I’m there. I look around and see all the stuff that needs to be done and it overwhelms me. Her big “joke” is that it just has to last as long as she does. 
When she says that, we always say - thanks a lot, mom. I can’t even imagine what we’ll be left with after she’s gone.
During the 1970s my family, along with my grandparents and other members of my extended family, would spend a week each summer at some cabins at a rural lake in Ontario, Canada. I think we went from 1973 through 1976. I have fond memories of boating, fishing, wandering around the camp, etc.
Over the decades since, I’ve reminisced about those vacations. Always wanted to go back, but either couldn’t afford it or I didn’t have enough vacation time saved up at work.
In late 2018 I said to myself, “I’m going to visit it again.” So in late November my son and I drove up to Canada and spent a week there. It was definitely not the best time of year to go, obviously, but I just had to see it again. All of the original cabins were gone, and new ones were built. Other than that, everything looked pretty much the same. Since then, we have visited three more times, in the summer.
About 30 years ago we drove past my childhood home. WE were sitting in our car at the curb and the new owners came out to talk. When I identified myself they invited us inside. I was not prepared for the overwhelming flood of emotions that came upon me. It was if I couldn’t breathe. The same rooms the same doors, all with the short 7’5" ceiling height,… the same bathrooms, but all of course painted new colors. I felt dizzy and had to ask to be excused. ONce outside I recovered quickly but I do not know what happened to me inside. Apparently there are many things in my past that are not really “settled”.
Wow – LaCloche Lake camp – although I’m not familiar with that specific resort (which looks lovely, BTW) the name “LaCloche” is very familiar, and in this case it does indeed refer to the LaCloche Mountain Range, the spectacular white quartzite mountains that are a central feature of Killarney Provincial Park whose outer perimeter is about 30 km southeast of that resort.
Which in turn brings back two more memories. We used to go wilderness camping in Killarney, the most beautiful wilderness park I’ve ever been in. But be warned – it’s only for the young and physically fit. You have to travel by canoe, sometimes considerable distances, and periodically carry the canoe along with all your supplies across portages between the lakes. Some of the portages are short, but a few are a mile or two.
The other related memory, more suitable for Old Farts, is my sailing and boating days (I had a sailboat, a friend had a motor cruiser). We’d go on week-long cruises up Georgian Bay and into the Killarney area. When there, we’d anchor for the night in some gorgeous secluded bay within sight of the LaCloche Mountains. That whole area is spectacularly beautiful.
Or people are just way more frightened without reason. Guess it depends on when you were there - but there does seem to be large contingent of people who think areas are more dangerous than years past when, if you look up statistics, they’re actually safer.
I really only have one place I lived that I think could evoke a reaction from me - the one I lived in from 2 to 14 - roof needs replacing, but mostly looks the same from outside. I was never tempted to take a look inside. Another place I lived, I see the junk cars out in the yard now - I notice the change, but don’t care about it.
So, does stuff actually need to be done or do you just not like the old aesthetic?
Again, is anything actually wrong - I’d always understood most aesthetic updates do not increase sale value. And many new buyers want to redo the place, anyway (see how many here are distraught that that has happened).
The house I grew up in has been abandoned. It, and all the farm buildings, are slowing becoming one with the ground. If anyone drives by at night and sees a ghost, it’s probably my childhood, trapped forever.
But I think the OP should also address the larger picture. When I lived there, I knew everyone. I’d see my peers every day. They didn’t have politics! All we thought about was “kid stuff”.
Now everyone is grown, matured, became assholes, whatever 
. They’ve got the problems of an adult, they’ve got kids, grandkids, some are sick, some are dying, some are gone. Some are trumpers. And not many love nostalgia as much as me.
I haven’t seen them in 45 years. What are we going to talk about? “How bout them packers!”
Not quite in the spirit of this thread, but my earliest memory is from the remarkable age of two years old, my mother holding me as I gazed up at the faux-tudor style wood beams “supporting” the roof.
I have no idea at all why that memory stuck, but my parents moved out of that house soon, and never lived there for very long anyway.
I’d love to go back and see it, but that might contaminate my earliest memory. Or disprove it, of course!
“Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, A time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories; They’re all that’s left you”
-Bookends by S&G
It’s never the same…
I have a similar experience in that I remember my grandmothers bed and being unable to climb into it because it’s so tall and I was very small. But I get to “go back” all the time since the bed became mine over 40 years ago.
I went to the small town my grandparents lived in (Eagle Bend, Minnesota) last year to see if the farm still existed. I had been there once for a family reunion in the 60s.
I went to the tiny town hall office and asked if anyone knew where Fred C’s farm was. One of the folks there said, “That name rings a bell…I think someone else owns the place now. Hey, let me call Joe, he remembers everything.”
In less than 5 minutes I was driving down a long driveway and approaching the house and outbuildings. Obviously things had changed, but they more or less matched my vague memories. But then a huge Cujo-esque dog ran out, growling and barking furiously. With that I decided my curiosity was satisfied, took a photo of the house through the windshield, and went on my way.
Ha! My grandparents had a Cujo of a cat at the farm – before my time, but they told stories of how he defended his territory from invading critters, including the day when a dog ventured up the driveway and into the front yard, was immediately attacked and routed by the cat, and was last seen bolting down the driveway being ridden by the feline gladiator.
I grew up about 400 miles away from where we live now - about as far away as you can get and still be in England. I really feel little desire to go back, or even much curiosity. I headed south when I graduated, lived in the south all my adult life. Both parents are long gone.
This thread did prompt me to do some google streetviewing - the town is Workington, if anyone is interested - and I got lost immediately. We went back for a cousin’s funeral twelve or so years ago. I was uncurious about the place. I can’t think of a reason for going back again. I don’t think I’m a very sentimenatal person.
Should you go back? I don’t think you can - and actually, I don’t have much of an interest in doing so.
j
ETA - very interesting thread.